


The Folly of Hector

by mistyzeo



Category: Troy (2004)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-07
Updated: 2010-05-07
Packaged: 2017-10-12 02:57:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/120012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paris makes a mistake, and needs to be punished.  (power issues?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Folly of Hector

**Author's Note:**

> well, that got out of hand. begun 2004 (first scene point five), finished 2010.

  
When Paris had first lost his helmet, in the first few moments of the battle, Hector had to fight the urge to put his hands over his face in exasperation. No, it was true, Paris would never be a good fighter.

The next thing to go was his shield, and with that came a solid blow to his face. Paris spat blood, and Agamemnon grabbed his hair, pulling his head back, exposing his throat.

Paris panicked. He hit back, finally, and Hector, from far away, could see Agamemnon fuming, raging. Then Paris' nose was bleeding, another block he'd missed, and then Hector saw his sword, skidding away.

That time, he gave into the urge, but only for a moment, and put his hand over his eyes. He pulled it away in time to see Agamemnon cut Paris' thigh, and Paris, on the ground, staring up at him in terror.

There was certainly a reason, Hector knew, that he was the fighting one, and not Paris.

Paris backed up a little, on his hands, and then turned and scrambled back, gasping, and fell, holding onto Hector's leg. He clutched at him, tears joining the blood and dirt on his face, and sobbed silently, not looking back at Menelaus, nor up at the men standing behind Hector.

"Your fight is over," Hector growled, ignoring his groveling brother, and with a stroke Menelaus was dead. He shouldn't have had to-- it wasn't his battle. But Paris was weak, and Paris was foolish, and Paris needed him.

With his free hand, Hector hauled Paris up by the back of his armor, sliding his arm under Paris', helping him, at a run, to get back towards Troy.

Paris broke free and, despite Hector's yell of warning, ran, best he could, back towards the middle. Hector heard the shouts of the Greeks, just as he reached his sword and picked it up, and then Paris was limping and stumbling back to him. Hector caught him in his arms again, and helped him up onto his horse.

"Ride Paris! Ride!"

The lines moved apart for him as he rode back into the city, and Hector stayed behind.

\---

Hector pushed the flap of his tent back and entered, pulling his helmet off. Paris stepped out of the corner.

"Hector?"

Hector didn't answer him.

"Hector, I'm sorry." Paris's soft voice made Hector look at him, and sneer.

"Are you? Are you really?" He took a single step and grabbed Paris' shoulders. "Do you have any idea what you're doing, at all? Everything I've ever tried to teach you, for nothing?"

Paris squeezed his eyes shut. "No," he whispered, "not for nothing."

"It would seem as such," Hector grumbled, and let Paris go. Paris put his hand to his forehead momentarily, and then looked up at him.

"Brother," Paris said, voice shaking, "forgive me. Forgive me, please."

"Ask your wife to forgive you," Hector snapped, turning away and unbuckling his armor awkwardly. His shoulder was stiff, and he kneaded the muscle carefully, not looking at Paris, ignoring his sharp inhale. "Ask her. She can provide just as well for you as I can. Do not ask me to forgive all the bloodshed her vanity and your greed have caused. Ask her."

"Hector," Paris whined, and Hector scowled. "You know she cannot."

"I doubt that very much," Hector said, dipping a rag into a basin and sweeping it across his face and neck. Sweat and blood and thick dust were coated on his skin, and the rag was quickly useless. "Her hands, I'm sure, are just as formidable as my own." He turned and stopped, although he should have been expecting it. Paris was kneeling on the floor of the tent now, head tilted back, his throat exposed, his arms locked behind his back, hands taut around his elbows. Hector threw the rag aside, crossed the tent, and grasped Paris's chin.

"I thought we were done with this," he said, very softly, stroking the skin under his thumb. Paris's big, brown eyes blinked up at him, pleading. "Damn it all, Paris. You wanted a wife, didn't you?"

Paris nodded wordlessly, and then his eyes cut away to the side, guilty.

"Andromache loves me," Hector murmured, "and I her. But she does not submit as prettily as you, brother."

Paris sighed, face relaxing, and Hector knew he was giving in. Paris had him wrapped around his finger just like Helen had Paris, and Hector would never be free of him so long as he lived. He squeezed Paris's chin hard and nudged him back, and Paris sank back on his heels and closed his eyes. His face was still tilted up in Hector's direction, and he was breathing slowly, but Hector could see the line of his shoulders trembling. He still needed to be forgiven-- punished and forgiven-- and Hector had never been any good at turning his brother away.

He could feel the blood pounding in his ears, drowning out the sounds of his troops all around them, rustling and murmuring and laughing and crying in the dark. His groin was tight and hot, cock already thickening, distorting the soft fabric of his loincloth. He stood for a moment, relishing the feeling of his hardness growing, the sight of his brother kneeling and ready, and then he stepped forwards again. His groin was right at the level of Paris's chin, and he put his hand on Paris's forehead.

Paris opened his eyes, and they were liquid dark with lust. He was chewing his lower lip mercilessly, teeth digging in and bruising, and Hector brushed his thumb across Paris's forehead and said, "Stop that. Open up."

Paris obeyed immediately, letting out a desperate breath, and his mouth dropped open. Hector gripped himself through his cloth and grunted, and then he pushed Paris's face against his groin. Paris moaned-- the only noise he ever made when they were like this-- turning so his damp mouth slid along Hector's length and rested against his tip. Hector could feel his cock pulse, leaking fluid, and Paris closed his mouth around it and _sucked_ , mouthing him through the cloth greedily.

"Gods, your--" Hector hissed, and Paris's eyes drifted closed as he licked and sucked, spit soaking the cloth. Pulses of pleasure shot up Hector's spine at every moment, and he could imagine how salty-sweet the fabric would taste, musky with his sweat, and then he couldn't possibly live another second without being inside Paris's mouth.

He pushed Paris away and fumbled, pulling his cock out from its confines. It was big, curving in his fist, and dark and thick with blood. The head was slippery, dripping and slick, and Paris made a little desperate sound in his throat. Hector stuck his thumb in Paris's mouth and pulled it open again, and Paris leaned forwards eagerly, sticking out his tongue to lick the head of his cock. Hector tugged him to the side, rubbing his cock along Paris's lips and across his cheek, leaving a shining trail, and he could see Paris's hands clenching on his forearms.

"Show me how sorry you are," he heard himself saying, cock twitching and leaking in his hand, on Paris's cheek. He said the most ridiculous things when-- when Paris was on his knees for him. Paris nodded and turned his head slowly, keeping his body still, licking out to rub his tongue along Hector's length until he reached the head again. Hector pulled him back-- always pulling Paris, pushing him in the right direction, always directing him-- fisted his cock twice, and aimed it for Paris's parted lips.

Paris inhaled him, sucking down his cock like he was starving for it. His groan was muffled, and Hector could feel his throat constricting, working hard. Paris coughed and Hector pulled back, giving him half a moment of air before shoving deep again.

"Stay," Hector ordered, stroking across Paris's beautiful high cheekbones. He touched the corners of Paris's watering eyes, gazing up at him, and buried both hands deep in Paris's unbearably soft hair. It twined around his fingers, loving and delicate, slippery curls everywhere, and Hector had to grip hard to keep Paris under control.

Paris was shaking, struggling, and Hector dragged him slowly away by the hair. His cock slid free of Paris's mouth with a slick pop, and then Paris was panting and gasping, sucking in air as hard as he could.

"Paris," Hector whispered, but his golden brother shook his head quickly and opened his mouth again expectantly. Groaning through his teeth Hector pushed his cock between Paris's lips again and thrust forwards. He set a punishing rhythm, fucking into Paris's mouth hard and fast. Paris was sucking him for all he was worth, swallowing and gagging and panting for more, slick and wet and expertly conditioned for this.

Hector could feel it, rising from his toes and his balls, tightening every muscle in his already tense body, and he bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting. Paris made a noise that might have been a moan, and when Hector looked down he could see that Paris was hard, cock poking out of his loincloth, bobbing and leaking as he sucked. His hips were rolling up, fucking into the air, and he was whimpering quietly, with every thrust of Hector's hips. Hector imagined what Paris might look like when he took his wife, pushing into her pretty, delicate body, filling her up over and over, running his hands over her pale skin, kissing her round breasts. But the immediate reality was better-- Paris gagging on his cock, arms still tight behind his back, so aroused by Hector's control that he was halfway to orgasm without even a touch.

Hector gripped his hair harder, clenching his fists tight, and started to come, jerking forwards and freezing, cock shoved down Paris's throat. Paris made a hurt noise and swallowed frantically, shivering from head to toe. Hector sucked in great gasps, staring up the ceiling of his tent as he spurted in his brother's mouth, balls tight and cock twitching. After what felt like an age, drained and exhausted, he pulled away and stumbled backwards. Paris half-fell and caught himself on his hands, panting, and Hector had the presence of mind to growl, "Don't you fucking dare," as Paris reached for himself.

Paris froze, whimpering, and Hector fell to his knees and pushed his brother back up, grabbing him around the waist. Paris's head lolled back, eyes closed and face damp with sweat and come. Hector shoved one knee between Paris's and gripped his beautiful cock in one big hand, and then Paris was arching against him and crying out, pulsing sticky and hot over his fist. It covered Hector's fingers and hit his stomach, and Paris went limp in his arms, open mouth against his chest, sweat-slick forehead against his throat.

Hector let go of his cock and wiped his hand on Paris's taut stomach, and then he curled his other arm around him and rearranged them so he held Paris close, almost on his lap. Paris breathed against his collarbone for a minute, and Hector could hear his throat click when he swallowed.

"I thought you wanted me to beat you, like an errant child," he said finally, voice a whisper against Paris's ear.

"I did," Paris replied. "But I-- I just-- I don't know." His laugh was a rasp. "You were--" He stopped and pushed away from Hector, hands splaying across Hector's chest reverently. "Never mind it."

Hector kissed him, taking his mouth and licking in slowly, tasting himself. Paris hummed and kissed back, but then he was breaking away and removing himself from Hector's embrace, tugging his chiton back into order and standing up.

"I should go," he said. "Helen-- I don't--"

He didn't finish the sentence before he was gone, vanishing out of the tent and into the night, and Hector sighed and pushed himself to his feet. So long as he lived, he thought. He would never be free.


End file.
